Red
by Lirazel
Summary: Why would she decide to attack Jayne out of the blue one day? River has her reasons, of course, of which reason knows not. Ariel oneshot.


**Red**

Why would she decide to attack Jayne out of the blue one day? River has her reasons, of course, of which reason knows not. Ariel one-shot.

Crazy River Imagery, pre-Rayne (yay!) set during _Ariel_. I think this one is pretty fun, so I hope you enjoy it.

_Disclaimer: It all belongs to Joss._

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The Girl is covered in scarlet, lifestream crimson rivers flowing all over her, dripping to the floor from fingertips and strands of hair and the hem of her dress, making patterns scarily like twisted faces on the ground. It's like blood, sticky and clinging and rank, but it is memories and guilt and responsibility, and none of it is hers. It isn't her blood, not from her veins, and she didn't spill it, either. But it is there. They poured it all over her, soaked her in it, shaped and molded her like clay while it seeped into her mind. They thought if they flooded her with it till the river ran over its banks, she would forget who she was, forget her bed carved and twisted after years of being River Tam, and then she would really be theirs.

It almost worked. But the Girl is a very strong swimmer, and they had not bargained on that. Swimming is a lot like dancing.

But whenever she closes her eyes, she sees red. Ruby and rust and garnet and brick and burgundy and cherry and tomato—_redredredredred_. And not even Simon's medicine—so frighteningly reminiscent of another lab, other needles, even if her brother's hands are warm and gentle and the color hands should be—can build a dam strong enough to hold back the flow. It all buckles under the pressure, and she quivers and quakes.

It would not be so bad if someone else were red, too. But no one is. She's the only one.

Simon couldn't be red if he tried. All the crew's blood from guns and knives and jobs gone bad cannot stain him. He's dark colors, navies and blacks and deep browns and purples, colors from another world, one she barely remembers. His colors are somber and solemn and simple and other words that start with s. She tries to hide in their shadows, but often the red chases her there and out again.

Wash's color is so bright it hurts her eyes: showy green dancing in front of her, inviting her to dance along, only she doesn't know the steps—all of her dances are red-dances. He's loud, friendlygreen like dinosaurs and leaves and the wind, a color that knows exactly what it is. She remembers green from before the frightening white of the lab, misses it.

The hair has taken over Book till whatever other color he could be doesn't show through. But silver is sort of nice, away from the hair; _Serenity_ is silver. Shepherd is not logical or reasonable or anything else someone with answers should be (she wishes he was, because she cannot be, and she wants to be so very badly), but she likes him anyways (when the hair is put away), probably because he is the same color as her home.

Kaylee is pink and orange and bright, laughing, bubbling colors, shiny and strong. Girly and vivid and never wavering. She looks even brighter against the backdrop of Simon's darks, and she is fireworks and lights in the night. She and her engine room and her ruffley dress shine their colors, pulsing out warmth and faith, but not even they can fight off the red.

Inara is creamy ivory, not cold and sterile like infirmaries or snow, but warm to the touch like flesh and deceptively delicate like her porcelain tea set. She is deep and fathomless like an opal, with fire deep in her heart, but a milky white finish on top. How can she be so pure when her life is one of stains and sellings? But she is, and she is everything the Girl wishes she could be.

Captain Daddy is brown to the core, and Zoë is, too, and no lost battles in far valleys could ever change that. Brown is a good color, soothing and natural, the opposite of labs and needles and blue hands; constant and steady as the dirt beneath her toes, warm as their coats, solid like wood. Brown is closer to red than anyone would want to admit, but it _isn't_.

The big one with the girl's name, though—he _should_ be red. With his guns and his grenades and his whores, no other color is appropriate for the man they call Jayne. Mercenaries are red, and nothing vexes the Girl more than that he is yellow. A dark, burnt sort of yellow, worn and used, like the pages of an old, old book, or the sand on a backwater planet,not sunny or cheerful at all, but yellow nonetheless. It's so _wrong_.

She creeps up closer, hoping to find that the yellow is some kind of mask, that his true color will be revealed when she gets closer.

No. Still yellow.

She wants to keen and wail, rocking back and forth, but Simon will come and she doesn't want him right now. She wants someone else who is red, who can show her how to be scarlet and live with the crimson.

Light—all the colors—glances off a knife. Such a pretty thing—it's only an object. But use it the right way and it calls forth red.

The idea is more than a little scary, but oh so tantalizing—more than chocolate or strawberries or dancing or _Serenity_ herself. She toys with it, like the blue hands toyed with her (there is no blue on this ship, and that is a grace so deep she can barely believe it and often weeps with gratitude).

The object warms in her hand, and she pauses. She's never spilt the red before, but she's so covered with it that it hardly matters. What difference will a few more drops make?

She creeps a little closer to the offending yellow. Just one movement, sure and graceful, the steps to a red-dance, and the yellow will disappear.

The knife bites into the yellow, into warm tanned flesh beckoning forth the red and she nearly laughs in delight as a crimson river springs to life, flowing across his chest. Yes—yes—more red—red like her. Not enough, though. The Girl needs more.

And she gets it, but not the way she wanted. His hand is hard and warm and as strong as you would think, and now there is more blood. But not on him—on her, and she can feel its metallic tang in her mouth. Just what she didn't need.

And everyone is yelling, blowing about and jittery, like the memories in her head. And he is cursing and angry—but his anger burns red and that is so pretty, like fire, though she knows it won't last, and then there will be yellow again.

And nobody understands why, but it's all so obvious to her.

"He looks better in red."

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Review, please!


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